Monster
by coloradoandcolorado1
Summary: An unknown woman lies unconscious in a country hospital. A brilliant detective must rely on his friends to solve a personal case. And a monster, long gone but never forgotten, rises to hunt again. A Sherlolly mystery. (Patience is a virtue; posting will be slow but worth it.)
1. Chapter 1

_No copyright infringement is intended. All credit goes to the brilliance of Conan Doyle, Moffat, and Gatiss._

_A little OC with angst. I love angst._

~s~s~s~s~

As the pale sun rose in the flat midsummer sky, an unidentified woman fought for her life on the second floor of Unified Hospital.

"BP is 90 over 60 and dropping," Dr. Michelle Dreiser reported hurriedly as Dr. Geoffrey Schaeffer carefully removed the fresh dressing covering the patient's incision and examined her belly.

"Her abdomen is getting rigid," he said.

Michelle swore. "She's still bleeding internally."

"We've got to open her up again." Schaeffer turned to his head nurse. "Any luck finding out who she is or her next of kin?"

"Nothing so far," Adile Bahar replied.

The patient hadn't regained consciousness since a local teen had found her discarded on Beckham Road and rushed her to the small ER the evening before. Without ID or even shoes on her, the woman with the long chestnut-brown hair was listed as "Jane Doe." Having decided she wasn't well enough to transport to a larger facility, Schaeffer and his team had immediately performed emergency surgery. The new morning brought with it signs that injuries remained.

"Well, there's nothing for it then. Adile, notify the fourth floor we're on our way up. And page Freddie."

"He's catching a few in the on-call room," Michelle said as she rushed out. "I'll get him."

As he finished scrubbing, Schaeffer fought the trademark anger he always felt when he had to mend and heal the result of inhuman cruelty. He had chosen to spend the few years remaining before retirement at Unified because it was in a quiet corner of the world where the worst he might see was a broken bone or appendicitis. He hadn't expected to ever treat injuries inflicted with a crowbar and steel-toed boots. Not again. Not here.

"You know crimes against women always make me angry," he said in response to Adile's questioning eyes. She nodded and helped him on with his sterile gloves.

"Dr. Schaeffer?" Tired but resolute, Michelle waited for her mentor at the door to the operating theater. Freddie Holcomb, on the other hand, was already prepped and inside, having awoken like a jack-in-the-box.

Determined not to lose another young woman to senseless violence, Schaeffer pressed his lips into a thin line. "Let's go."

~s~s~s~s~

"I know Scotland Yard is relatively incompetent, but shouldn't you at least try to solve the crime before calling me?"

Sally Donovan snapped her notebook shut and stared balefully at the approaching detective. Sherlock Holmes and his ever-present companion John Watson ducked under the crime scene tape that cordoned off the steps leading to Legacy Office Complex, an auspicious-sounding name for a nondescript building in a part of London no one loved.

"If I had my way, we would never call you," she said sharply.

"If you never called me, how would any of this city's murders ever get solved?" Sherlock smirked as he breezed by.

"Must you be such an arse?" John said.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I do. Two maybe three more uninterrupted hours and I could have wrapped up that tedious murder investigation—it was the sister who did it, by the way—and turned my attention to the Blackwell analysis. But the police need to be babysat."

"Why did you take a security case anyway?"

"Security analysis, John, security analysis. I will learn firsthand about the most advanced radio frequency identification systems in the world today."

"Whatever," John muttered, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Just because Susan left you doesn't mean you have to be so disagreeable."

John practically shouted. "For the last time, my girlfriend's name is not Susan or Shannon or Sheryl. It's Sarah—Sarah Louise Mary Morsten. And she didn't leave me. We agreed she should take the fellowship, and we're still very much together."

"She's in Auckland for a year. I may be new to relationships, but I know being that far away isn't going to work out well."

At the third door on the left, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade waited impatiently. "If you two are done squabbling for the morning, we're in here."

Dull sunshine streaming through the vertical blinds threw a strange pattern across the large mahogany desk. Seated behind it was a balding, middle-aged black man wearing thick glasses and discount-store clothing. There was nothing remarkable about him except for a crimson stain flowering across his chest.

Sherlock dove in. "The victim was unmarried, a heavy smoker, and a gambler. He was killed at the most two hours ago. Because there is a charging cord on the floor but no laptop, we can conclude the murderer must have taken it. Is the victim's camera gone as well?"

"We did find an empty digital camera case on the floor," Lestrade said. "How did you know?"

"The building directory lists August Investigations in this office. A P.I. normally has a camera. Whatever he was working on, someone didn't want there to be any trace of it remaining. From the looks of it, the paper file will be missing, too." Sherlock crouched to survey the contents spilling from the overturned filing cabinet.

"Probably a straying husband who didn't want his wife to have snaps of his girlfriend presented at their divorce," John speculated.

Sherlock stood abruptly to face the Detective Inspector. "Your text said I have a personal connection to this murder, yet I don't know this man."

"Maybe not, but you've heard of him. He opened this lovely office four months ago after he was forced to close his last agency because we're investigating it. It was Milverton and Associates."

Sherlock expression morphed into one of triumphant gloating. "This is Charles Augustus Milverton? I am surprised it took someone this long to kill him."

~s~s~s~s~

"Sponge."

"Do you see the bleeder?" Michelle asked.

"Not yet." Schaeffer's voice was tense. "Suction."

"There it is!" Freddie exclaimed.

"Good work. And here is a second one," Schaeffer said as a monitor alarm sounded.

"BP is dropping. Wrap it up," said the anesthesiologist.

Schaeffer remained calm. "Dreiser, tie that one off. I'll take this one. Make quick work of it, OK?"

~s~s~s~s~

"Charles Augustus Milverton was a predator," Sherlock told John. "He operated under the auspices of being a private detective, but he nosed out every unsavory detail on whomever he was investigating as well as his client. If he dug something up on either one of them, he would use it to his advantage."

"Blackmail?"

"Quite so," Sherlock replied, staring at the entry wound. "A small-caliber weapon."

Rubbing his forehead, John wished they had stopped for a coffee on the way over. "Why didn't his victims report Milverton to the police?"

"Because most of Charlie's clientele are, as they say, on the wrong side of the law," Lestrade said. "Sure, he occasionally came by an honest customer, but Lord help them if they had skeletons in their closets. He had a long list of enemies, didn't he?"

"So whoever took his laptop and camera could have been a client Milverton was blackmailing or could have been someone he was investigating," John mused.

"Lestrade, why am I here?" Sherlock huffed. "Surely telling me this lowlife was dead, while good news, didn't require me personally visiting the crime scene."

Lestrade hesitated for a moment. "I had a few dealings with Charlie over the years. He was a smart one. I knew he wouldn't keep just digital or even paper files. He would have more insurance than that. So we searched for it." The cop walked over to a uniformed officer who held a stack of manila envelopes. "We found these in a compartment under the desk."

The envelope he handed Sherlock was marked with a large "H" in thick ink. It was of ordinary quality and could have been purchased at any stationery store. On the lip was a series of numbers and letters, obviously a code Milverton had devised for his own purposes. Slowly Sherlock pulled out a grainy 8 x 10 picture. It was out of focus and taken from a distance, but it clearly was of him.

The detective raised his eyebrows. "I appear to be hailing a cab outside St. Bart's."

"It's hard to tell when it was taken," Lestrade said. "Of course, if you ever wore anything besides that coat . . ."

Sherlock ignored John's poorly suppressed snort of laughter and handed the photograph back. "I'm not worried about this."

"That's not why I called you," Lestrade said gravely. "It concerns a mutual friend of ours."

The policeman presented Sherlock with a second envelope, identical to the first, right down to the black "H." Sherlock held it for a moment, noting it was heavier and the code was different. Sliding out several pictures, the blood drained from his already pale face as he stared at one, then another, then another.

Sherlock dropped the photos on the desk and quickly pulled out his mobile.

"What is it?" Leaning to see the pictures better, the doctor gasped when he recognized the lovely doe-eyed woman staring up at him.

Molly arriving at the hospital. Molly leaving 221 B Baker Street. Molly grocery shopping. Molly closing the curtains in her bedroom. Sherlock and Molly walking side-by-side down the street. Sherlock and Molly standing close to one another outside Angelo's. But what struck John about the last picture was the way Sherlock tentatively cradled one of her fingers in his. It was the most public statement the consulting detective had made about his relationship with Molly, yet it spoke volumes.

"Answer!" Sherlock growled into his mobile as the Regulator clock on the wall ticked away the seconds.

"I don't understand," Lestrade said to John. "Molly's just his friend, isn't she?"

Finally, a wave of relief washed over Sherlock that everyone in the room also felt. "Molly!" he cried.

The smile that had softened his features disappeared as quickly as it came. Sherlock let his mobile slide out of his grasp and ran from the room.

"What is it?" Lestrade shouted, chasing after him.

John snatched up the phone to hear Mike Stamford sputtering, "Sherlock? Are you there?"

"Mike?" John ran down the hall. "It's John Watson. Why do you have Molly's mobile?"

"I was out yesterday. First thing this morning I have a message from Kramer saying Molly didn't come in yesterday. But I came down here and her purse and phone are in her desk." Mike paused. "John, what's going on? Where's Molly?"


	2. Chapter 2

As the police car zipped in and out of traffic, Greg Lestrade clenched his fists.

"Lawson! You do know how to work the accelerator, yeah?"

In response to his guv's impatient bark, Lawson hit the gas. The Detective Inspector continued to burn holes into the back of Lawson's head as if this would will the man to drive faster.

At his recent physical, Lestrade was told to reduce his stress level or he'd be looking at a peptic ulcer. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath through the nose. The doctor had said this would help him relax.

The doctor was an idiot.

Lestrade slammed his hand down on the seat. "Why didn't the stupid bastard wait for us? If I'd known Sherlock and Molly were _involved_, I would've gone straight away to make sure she was all right. I wouldn't have waited for you two to show up."

"It's not your fault," John said quickly. "Sherlock's just getting used to saying _relationship_ let alone telling the world he's in one."

"How long have they . . . ?"

John eyed the detective, remembering the appreciative looks he had given Molly at that disastrous Christmas party years ago. "Not long."

"You sure he's headed to the hospital? Maybe he went to her flat."

"No," John replied with certainty. "He knows Mike Stamford has Molly's mobile and purse, so that means she must have disappeared while at work."

Drumming his fingers on his knees, Lestrade started to theorize. "I'd say whoever hired Charlie provided him with that photo of Sherlock to make sure he knew what the git looks like. Then he spied Sherlock and Molly together. Molly became the target."

John chewed on his thumbnail. "Why?"

Lestrade's face darkened. "Because she is the chink in Sherlock's armor. He has as many enemies as Charlie had. If they found out Sherlock has a weak spot . . ."

John shuddered at the implications and quickly sent a text.

_**Molly missing. Meet us at St. Bart's.**_

_**-John Watson**_

The reply he received was direct and disappointing.

_**In Latvia. Returning tomorrow. Keep Sherlock away from drugs.**_

_**-M. Holmes**_

John knew Sherlock hadn't told his older brother about Molly. He also knew that didn't mean Mycroft wasn't fully aware of their relationship.

In his other pocket, Sherlock's mobile buzzed with an incoming message.

"Holy mother…" he exclaimed as he read the text.

"What now?" Lestrade said.

"A text from Stamford. We're to come straight to the security office. The security officer is about to punch Sherlock in the mouth."

~s~s~s~s~

The surgery went better than Schaeffer had thought it would. As soon as they tied off the bleeders, Jane's vital signs stabilized. After a period in recovery, she was wheeled into the ICU.

"Adile?" Michelle was surprised to see the head nurse standing at Jane's bedside long after their shift had ended. "I thought you had left."

Adile shook her head. "Just showered and put on fresh scrubs. I wanted to see how our Jane was doing."

"Want to grab a cup of coffee?" Michelle said tucking an unruly red curl behind her ear.

"I'll buy," the older woman said pleasantly and with one last look at Jane's vitals on the monitor, followed the doctor down the hall.

"I load mine with lots of sugar and cream so it doesn't taste so bloody awful." The freckles on Michelle's nose crinkled when she smiled.

Adile drank hers black. "This is better than some I've had."

"So, you've known Dr. Schaeffer a long time, right?" the young doctor tentatively asked.

"More than fifteen years."

"He was really affected by Jane's injuries, wasn't he?"

Adile thought through her response. "Dr. Schaeffer has volunteered to treat victims of war all over the world. He's seen terrible things."

The two women casually strolled down the hall back to Jane's room. "Where has he been?"

"Rwanda. The Sudan. Chechnya. Serbia. That's where I met him." Adile tossed her cup toward a trashcan and missed. With a rueful smile, she bent over to pick it up. "Jane probably brought back a lot of bad memories for him. Very bad memories."

~s~s~s~s~

Rushing down the main corridor off the main lobby, John didn't need directions to the security office. He recognized one of the raised voices the echoed down the hall.

"Play the tape from Tuesday!"

"I don't give a rat's arse what you say, I'm not running Tuesday's tape! It's Monday's tape that shows Dr. Molly coming to work. I watched it three times since Dr. Stamford here said something was wrong with Dr. Molly, and I tell you, she didn't leave the morgue on Monday morning!"

"And I'm telling you that you are an idiot!"

John burst through the door to see Sherlock practically standing on the balls of his feet to assert his superiority over the older heavy-set security guard who was not backing down from the confrontation.

Lestrade quickly flashed his warrant card. "Sherlock, shut up. And you…"

"Tate, sir. Yorkshire constabulary, retired." The security guard continued to glare at Sherlock.

"Tate, run that security footage for me from Monday when Dr. Hooper arrived at work," Lestrade ordered.

Exasperated, Sherlock began to pace. "I've been trying to explain to this mental giant that we need to view the tapes from yesterday, not Monday. Molly was here yesterday."

"Sherlock, she went missing yesterday," said Mike who sat wearily on a nearby chair.

Sherlock gestured emphatically. "That's wrong. Molly was here yesterday. John and I stopped by to see her last night after he insisted on something to eat."

Shaking his head, John said gently, "That wasn't yesterday. That was the day before."

"What?" Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"Today is Wednesday. We stopped by on Monday," John said. "You told Molly about the murder case and promised to let her know when you solved it. She said that she'd text you later. Yesterday you spent all day in your mind palace. You didn't see Molly at all."

Sherlock faltered, his expression a porcelain mask but his blue-green eyes alive with emotion. Slowly he lowered into a chair next to the panel of security monitors. "How could I have not known?"

Lestrade stepped forward. "Run the tape."

Tate resumed his seat in front of the keyboard and pulled up a black and white video. Molly appeared on the screen. Wearing khakis and a dark coat, she rummaged in her striped bag for an elastic band and pulled back her hair into a long ponytail before stepping out of range.

Tate fast-forwarded the footage. Frame after frame sped by, and Molly never reappeared. "I told you," he muttered not too quietly.

"Is there a camera in the hall where they bring the bodies into the morgue?" John suggested.

With a few keystrokes, Tate brought up a different feed at the same date and time stamp. Five minutes after Molly had entered the lab, a janitor pushing a large bin of dirty laundry left the morgue.

Sherlock jumped to his feet. "Stop. Go back three frames. Did you see his shoes?"

Lestrade leaned in. "By God, he's right. The janitor is wearing loafers!"

"He's no janitor," Sherlock said angrily. "Molly is in that bin."

"Now wait, Sherlock," Mike began. "All our employees have to scan an ID badge to enter the hospital. Someone couldn't just walk in—"

"Then I suggest you check your HR department and see if a cleaning person has reported his keycard stolen."

"Be quiet, both of you. The tape is still running," Lestrade snapped as Lawson quietly entered the room.

Wearing standard hospital coveralls, gloves, and a low-fitting cap, the janitor slowly made his way down the hall and turned to the left.

"He should've gone right to get to the laundry," Tate said slowly.

The cameras picked the janitor up again as he pushed the bin past a few hospital employees who paid him no attention. He eventually exited the doors to the delivery docks and wheeled his cargo onto a waiting truck without breaking stride. After pulling down the rear door, he got in the driver's seat and drove away.

"Right." Lestrade finally broke the long silence. "Tate, find out whose card was used. Get the login records for yesterday morning. Lawson, go secure the lab as a crime scene. I'm going to call in for more units and send Donovan to Charlie's flat to search."

As the men left the security office, Sherlock brought the image of Molly walking down the hall back up and lightly touched the screen.

"How could I not notice she was gone?" he said quietly.

John stared at his shoes uncomfortably. "Lestrade believes whoever hired Milverton…"

"Did so to find a way to get to me? Obviously." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. "The question is who and why. It wouldn't be someone along the lines of a criminal genius. That type of person wouldn't take the risk of going to a shady P.I., particularly Milverton. No, this is a common criminal.

"If he kidnapped Molly to take revenge on me, he would have let me know by now that he had her. He'd want to triumph over me. If he took Molly to undermine my work on the MacDonald murder, that is a moot point. I solved the case. No, he wants my attention." Sherlock's expression was hollow. "Regardless of his motive, this man killed Milverton and removed all evidence. He's leaving no loose ends."

_Molly is a loose end_, John thought and immediately regretted it. As if he had read his friend's mind, Sherlock's shoulders uncharacteristically slumped.

"I looked through her bag." He glanced over to the large striped bag on the table behind John. "Nothing is missing. Except Molly."

Taken back to hear Sherlock state the obvious, John sadly realized his friend hoped to be contradicted.

"Do you have my mobile?" Sherlock suddenly asked. The detective quickly found the last text Molly sent. "She texted me Monday night. It says, 'Thinking of you.'" Sherlock's voice was rough. "I didn't even open it."

"You were working on the case. You were in your mind palace." John's attempt to comfort his friend was met with a withering look. "I've texted Mycroft. He'll be back in London tomorrow."

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead he turned back to the monitor and sat immobile in front of Molly's frozen image.

~s~s~s~s~

_If you truly want to destroy a man, you take away that which he needs most to live._

The man sitting in the corner of the Internet cafe believed this to be true long before he saw it proven on the battlefield. A person could be tortured almost to death and still refuse to cooperate. But threaten a loved one with the same violence? Then it was a different story.

That's why he had hired Charlie Milverton—to find out what Sherlock Holmes' weak spot was, what he needed most to live.

Charlie delivered the names of Sherlock's few friends, but the man felt love would be the key to undoing Sherlock Holmes. He first considered taking Sherlock's mum until he found out she was inaccessible on the continent. Then there was his brother, but God Almighty; it would be easier to kidnap the queen than Mycroft Holmes.

And then the perfect answer was before him: Molly Hooper. He almost didn't recognize the signs of romance between the pair, but Charlie assured him they were a couple.

It was easy enough to follow some of the janitorial crew to their pub. After buying them a few rounds, he lifted one of his new mate's keycards and slipped out the back. Once in the hospital, he made quick work of finding a cap and uniform, then headed straight for the morgue.

The man closed his eyes and sighed heavily. It was only after he kidnapped Molly Hooper that everything went terribly wrong.

All he had to do was keep her in the cottage until it was safe, then he would have let her go, no harm done. He had no reason to hurt her. She didn't see him when he crept up behind her at St. Bart's, and he made sure to wear a ski mask whenever she was conscious. She could never identify him.

If only she hadn't gotten loose. If only she hadn't tried to fight back.

He didn't want to do it. But when she began kicking and hitting, it was as if a switch had been flipped in his gut and suddenly it was years earlier and a world away. Then somehow he had a metal bar in his hands and he began using that, too. When his anger was spent, he felt sick. How could he so easily turn back into the person he had left behind?

_She brought it on herself_, he thought repeatedly.

He had driven blindly for miles before leaving her on the side of the road. There was nothing to identify her and nothing to tie him to her. As he drove back to the cottage, he believed everything would still go according to plan, but then Charlie called and said in that slow way of his that he had discovered some interesting information about the past, and wouldn't it be a shame if the details went public?

The man agreed to pay the outrageous sum Charlie demanded. He said he would meet Charlie in the dead of night. _Yes, Charlie. Certainly Charlie._ The man would have agreed to anything. He had already decided he would kill Charlie.

Finished scanning the headlines, the man shut the laptop computer. There was nothing in the London news about Dr. Hooper's disappearance. The man scratched his rough beard. Maybe Mycroft Holmes was pulling strings and keeping it out of the tabloids. There also hadn't been any posts about a woman's body being found.

_Perhaps she hasn't been found yet_, he thought happily.

If that were the case, he could resume his carefully crafted life, and no one would be the wiser.

~s~s~s~s~

Adile clasped Jane's small, cold hand between her motherly warm ones. She knew she couldn't do anything more medically to help her patient right now, but she could work on finding out who Jane really was.

"Poor little lamb. Poor lost little lamb," Adile crooned softly. "Who are you? Have you no family? Is there no one missing you right now?"


	3. Chapter 3

At work Geoff Schaeffer was the man in charge, the capable, experienced doctor who made the big decisions in a calm, professional manner. And he didn't mind it one bit. He relished the excitement of caring for a very ill patient and restoring that person to health.

But when he came home, he wanted to relax. The most demanding decision he wanted to deal with was what to watch on television. Usually after a long shift he would read or walk on his treadmill until the hospital became a blur. However, this day was different. No matter what he did, his mind continued to race. Reaching up to turn off the reading lamp, Geoff slouched in his recliner and watched the end of _Singing in the Rain_ with the sound off.

Finally the front door opened and he smiled. It never failed to amaze him how the sound of her footsteps could ease his mind and get his heart pounding at the same time.

"You're late," he called.

"I know."

He mentally followed her as she hung up her coat in the hall closet and went to the kitchen. The refrigerator opened and the clanging of bottles rang through the house.

"Grab me one?"

A minute later she pushed open the den door and placed a sweet kiss on his cheek before handing him a beer.

Geoff took a long drink. "I figured you wouldn't be home until you had spent time with her."

Adile let her dark hair loose from the confines of the firm bun at the nape of her neck. "Our Jane is set for the night. She is doing very well, actually. And you have a new fan."

Once upon a time that news would have excited him. Now he was barely curious. "Who?"

"Michelle Dreiser. She was asking about you."

"Why? My team knows everything about me."

Adile sat on the couch and smiled to herself. Her partner of fifteen years would never understand the female mind. "Let me put it this way: She was hoping I could give her the inside scoop on the great Dr. Schaeffer. Your interns obviously don't know about you and I."

"Hmmm," he said. "So what did you tell her?"

"I told her all the different places you'd served. She was duly impressed."

He laughed. "You were once impressed like that. At a refugee center, as I recall."

Adile stared at Debbie Reynolds on the flat-screened TV. "I was remembering that very thing tonight. I don't want to stir bad memories for you, but did you notice the mark on Jane's arm?"

Geoff looked up sharply. "That must be what has been bothering me."

Adile nodded. "It reminded you of those girls."

Feeling a little sick, he set his beer on the floor. "But it can't be."

"How do you know that for sure?" she prodded.

"How could that killer simply show up in England after all these years?"

"They never caught him. And that very same mark was the Monster's signature."

"It can't be." Geoff shook his head angrily. The Monster, as some people had dubbed him, had caused more harm to civilians than Geoff had ever seen in any war zone. The idea of this killer reappearing in this peaceful English town was almost more than the doctor could stomach.

"I'm going to go online tomorrow and start a search for who Jane really is," Adile quickly changed the subject.

"Good idea. Family support will help her heal more quickly," he said, calming down. "We're both knackered. Let's take a look at Jane's arm with clearer eyes after we get some sleep."

Adile switched off the television and extended her hand to him. "Then let's go to bed."

~s~s~s~s~

_If only._

If there were two sadder words in the English language, John Watson didn't know what they would be. He stared out the tall window in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street without seeing anything.

_If only I had heard Sherlock leave._

_If only there was a clue as to who took Molly._

_If only I could do something._

He rested his forehead against the cool glass.

_If only Sarah were here._

He didn't want to call until he had something concrete to report, something hopeful. He knew how upset she would be to learn Molly was missing and he wouldn't be there to comfort her. But if he were being totally honest, John would admit he needed her comfort more.

"Dr. Watson?"

Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway looking as dapper as ever, but something about his appearance was slightly disheveled. Perhaps it was the way his eyes searched the room.

"Where is Sherlock?"

"I thought you weren't in until tomorrow?"

"I was able to hurry things along. Where is Sherlock?"

"I don't know." John's head dropped. "He must have left about an hour ago. I didn't realize he had gone until it was too late."

Mycroft didn't look upset. "Don't fret, doctor. When I received your text, I contacted Anthea immediately. Someone is tailing him. Even if he tries to find his old . . . sources, they won't be there."

John sighed in relief. "Oh thank God."

Over the years he and Sherlock's brother had developed an odd relationship that revolved solely around the detective, but it was one in which the doctor felt he could speak candidly. "I've never seen him act like this."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Tell me more."

John scrubbed his hand over his chin. "He seems lost. But I suppose he's acting like any man would who's worried about the woman he loves."

Sitting in Sherlock's spot, Mycroft stared into the empty fireplace bleakly. "When he loves someone—you know his claim that he can't love is some odd self-indulgence he has, don't you? As I was saying, when he loves someone, it's with intensity. He won't just be worried about Dr. Hooper. He will be beside himself and may do something drastic."

"What shall we do then? We have no clues, do we?" John dropped heavily into his usual chair.

When Mycroft did answer, his voice was controlled and professional. "I've been in contact with Detective Inspector Lestrade. He agreed that I have better resources and so has sent copies of the codes Milverton used to my office. Breaking those codes will lead to whomever hired him, I'm sure."

"There may be one other thing we can do," John mused. "Sherlock just solved our most recent case. So I started thinking about this upcoming security case he has and wondering if it could be related. He's doing an analysis for an extremely important art show. He was hired by the company insuring the whole thing to evaluate the monitoring systems, run background checks, that sort of thing."

"Are you proposing that someone who is planning an art theft kidnapped Dr. Hooper to keep Sherlock from doing this analysis?"

"Maybe. I don't know. All I do know is the paintings belong to Lady Eva Blackwell—you know, the recluse?—and they have never been exhibited before."

Mycroft steepled his fingers much like his brother. "Even if Sherlock isn't as focused at the moment, between the two of us, I believe we can make short work of this security case."

"What?" John gaped at the man. "Who? Us?"

"It may surprise you, doctor, to learn that while I don't have all of my brother's unique abilities, I do share some of his talents," Mycroft said drily. "If your theory is correct and Dr. Hooper's kidnapping is tied to this rare art, then the sooner we investigate it, the sooner we may turn up a lead."

"But won't Sherlock be—"

Mycroft stood. "Yes. He will be. But right now he needs our help."

~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock knew the substances that distracted his youthful and undisciplined mind would no longer free him, nor did he want to escape from the suffocating worry that weighed on him. Whatever pain he was experiencing he would endure. So when he walked out of his flat, he didn't go to his old haunts. Instead he walked the joyless London streets briskly in the hopes of outrunning every star, every streetlight, every traffic sound that seemed to jeer at his epic failure as a man and as a detective.

His fury knew no bounds. He was madly, blindly angry with whomever had kidnapped Molly, a criminal who had the gall to take his pathologist. When he found this man—and he _would _find him—he would kill him.

He was angry, too, with Molly. Hadn't she been paying attention to her surroundings? Had she learned nothing from him? Why was everything reminding him of her? And why did she have to make him to feel these feelings for her in the first place? Why did he have to _feel_ anything at all?

But most of all Sherlock was angry with himself. He was the world's only consulting detective and he was brilliant. But a murderer had kidnapped his Molly. The one who counted the most, his True North, and he didn't protect her or even notice she was missing.

Epic. Failure.

Hailing a cab, he had the driver take him to a place where the homeless had made a temporary camp. After alerting his network of informants, Sherlock felt confident they would find out sooner than Lestrade who had been in and out of Milverton's office in recent days. Then he paid the cabbie to wait while he got out in front of Molly's flat and stared up at the darkened windows.

No, he didn't want this pain to end. It would sharpen his thoughts and refine his purpose. It would motivate and push him. He wouldn't need to eat or sleep. This terrible ache that felt like hollowness would be his life force now. There would be nothing else for him until he brought her home safely, buried his face in her lap, and begged her forgiveness. That is how it had to be. Because if he failed to do this . . .

Turning on his heels, Sherlock got back in the cab. "221B Baker Street," he said sharply. "Go fast. We have no time to lose."


	4. Chapter 4

_Dear friends, a thousand apologies for posting so late. Writing this is like trying to run through molasses and life has been... well, you know. I will do better._

_~s~s~s~s~_

_My God, she's a beauty. _

In the hazy half-light of dawn, Sherlock would watch in wonder as Molly slept. What had he done to deserve the love and loyalty of a woman such as this? The gray shadows bathed her in a quiet coolness that soothed his restless mind. Only in these moments did he allow himself to contemplate what he felt for her.

Often times just acknowledging he _felt_ was enough. But he knew it was so much more.

What had John once said? _"When are you going to just call this what it is? It's not an 'understanding'; it's love."_

Love was a little like floating out to sea, Sherlock was learning, only he wasn't afraid. Each new emotion was a warm wave that lapped gently over him, and Molly was beckoning him further into the water. What he had kept at bay his entire life now surrounded him. Even as he analyzed and filed each sensation, he knew cataloging the data wasn't as important as she was. Her smile, the way she looked at him, her laughter—Sherlock knew this was what mattered most. She was so far into his heart and mind, he almost felt normal.

"Oi! Idiot!"

The cabbie slammed on the breaks to avoid a car swerving into his lane. "Sorry, sir."

Roused from his thoughts, Sherlock ran trembling fingers through his curls. He had to focus. Molly's disappearance had to relate to his next case. As long as the homeless network was chasing leads as to who had gone into Milvern's office in recent weeks, he could concentrate on who wouldn't want the security analysis to be done.

Slouching into his coat, Sherlock watched the black London night roll by. Caring was found on the losing side, or so he had been told his entire life. Molly Hooper personified caring. And he wouldn't let her lose.

"Hey, guv, Baker Street. We're here," the cabbie repeated, this time catching Sherlock's attention.

Tossing a few bills toward the man, Sherlock ran up the stairs.

~s~s~s~s~

John glanced at his watch. Nine a.m. Thirty minutes had passed since Anthea had admitted him to Mycroft's home. He didn't question her presence—he knew that wherever Mycroft was, Anthea would be. With a flick of her wrist and a Cheshire cat smile, the attractive brunette gestured toward a leather couch and silently left John in the sitting room.

He had waited the previous night at 221B Baker Street for the other Holmes boy. It was late, and just as he was nodding off at the kitchen table, the detective had bounded in and threw open his laptop without acknowledging the doctor's presence.

"Why did you sneak out? Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?"

"Telling you where I was going would have defeated the purpose of sneaking out."

Fighting his temper, John tried to take into account his friend's agitated state of mind. "So where have you been?"

Sherlock's fingers flew over the keyboard. "Mycroft's spy kept an eye on me. You didn't have to worry."

"Listen, Mycroft is—"

"I need to work now."

John had witnessed this countless times. Sherlock would focus his laser-like attention on his work and not notice if his friend stayed or not. John shrugged on his coat and gave Sherlock one last look. He would learn about his brother's investigation soon enough. John returned to his flat and slept in a bed that felt too large.

While waiting for Sherlock to come home, he had sent Sarah a long email detailing what had happened to Molly and what he and Mycroft planned to do. He knew when he sent it that she would be at work and unable to respond until what would be the next morning in London. As soon as he woke up, he quickly booted up his laptop and found her reply waiting in the inbox.

_This is so horrible. Call day or night if there is any news about Molly. How is Sherlock today? I am beside myself with worry. For all of you. Should I come home? I know I won't be of any help and that you and Sherlock will have Molly home safe and sound before I can buy the ticket. But say the word and I am on the fastest plane home to you. I love love love you._

_Sarah_

John didn't know it was possible to physically hurt due to missing someone, but it was true. Part of him even wanted to take her up on her offer. Instead he reread her words again. How was Sherlock? He wished he could say. He had seen the detective in many different situations, but nothing like this.

As the grandfather clock began to chime down the well-appointed hall, Mycroft finally emerged from his private office.

"Ah, John, good of you to come." He enunciated each word with the precision of a Shakespearian actor. "You were quite right—Lady Blackwell is a recluse. It took quite a bit of arm-twisting by the right person to convince her to see us. However, we do have an appointment with her at ten o'clock."

"You had to pull a few strings then?" John stood. "Call in a few favors?"

The older man sighed wearily. "Actually, I now owe a few favors. You have no idea what I had to promise to secure this interview."

"Who on earth did you have to call?" John chuckled. "The queen?"

"Worse." Mycroft shuddered. "Mummy."

~s~s~s~s~

If Lady Eva Blackwell had been wearing tweeds instead of a well-tailored suit, John could easily have imagined her minding a little shop in a sleepy country village. Weak of chin, large of nose, the octogenarian must have learned at an early age to smile with closed lips to hide her bad teeth. The effect was a permanently pained expression.

A rush of remorse filled the doctor. When had he become so cruel in his judgments? Probably after Sarah left and he started spending more time with Sherlock. Thinking of his best friend, he stole a glance at Mycroft as he graciously accepted the cup of tea offered him. Sherlock would never agree to quietly wait for tea to be served before demanding answers. But Mycroft understood that conventions had to be observed.

"Thank you," Mycroft said and took a sip. But from everything he had observed of the elder Holmes brother, John felt certain Mycroft could be much more ruthless than Sherlock.

The attendant set the teapot back on the tray and unobtrusively left the room, passing by a tall, balding man who entered silently and stood behind Lady Eva's chair. For a moment John thought the man was another hotel employee, but then he observed that the man wore a navy blue turtleneck and black slacks.

She cleared her throat. "Mycroft Holmes, Dr. Watson, this is Stevan Tojagic. He manages my estate in Cornwall."

Stevan locked eyes with the doctor, who smiled good-naturedly. His friendly gesture went unreturned.

"I was quite surprised to hear from your mother, Mycroft," Lady Eva said. "I don't have a mobile telephone, a computer, or the Internet. We only have a landline in Stevan's office for emergencies or business with my vacation rentals. And yet she reached me here at The Savoy."

Her question hung unasked in the air.

"I provided her with your suite number, Lady Eva," Mycroft said with a bright smile that reminded John of a character Sherlock might portray. "Your housekeeper was very kind to let me know you were staying in town this week."

She sniffed. "I understand you hold some sort of government position?"

He nodded. "A small one."

"And your brother? The time I visited when your Great Uncle Neville was still alive, Sherlock had worms and toads in jars."

"He was nine." Mycroft smiled indulgently. "The subject matter of his experiments has changed. He is a detective."

"Oh my," she said haughtily. "I am sorry, for your dear mother's sake."

"In fact, he was hired to conduct a security analysis of your art exhibit," Mycroft said.

Lady Eva cast a beady eye in John's direction. "I don't believe I had been informed of his involvement. Or that of his associate."

Feeling unexpectedly defensive, John shifted uncomfortably.

"We did receive notice from the Allied Insurance Company, Lady Eva." Stevan's soft voice still held a strong accent.

"I must have forgotten." She smoothed the creases in her slacks absently. "Stevan handles all of my affairs, you see. Well, I fail to see why Allied is so concerned. The private security firm I hired is quite reputable."

"Sherlock is the best there is to investigate anything that might be questionable," John piped up.

As Stevan stared directly at him, the doctor tried to apply the observation techniques he had learned from Sherlock. The man was clearly not athletic, still had most of his hair, and sported a neatly trimmed beard. He had a scholarly look to him that reminded John of his first chemistry teacher.

"Tell me, why isn't Sherlock here?" Lady Eva asked.

"A series of events has prevented him from completing that assignment, so I am stepping in," Mycroft said. "Can you tell me why you decided to allow your art to be part of this exhibit?"

"My nephew David insisted that the general public needed a chance to see these treasures," she replied disdainfully. "We didn't agree, but he can be very persuasive."

"Is David here?" John asked.

Flinching slightly, Lady Eva looked as if she had forgotten the doctor was present. "No," she replied. "Weather delays have prevented him from traveling from Croatia where he has a business."

"Croatia is a lovely country," Mycroft murmured.

"My late husband and I visited there," Lady Eva said warmly. "And it's where I met Stevan."

She looked over her shoulder at him. "He returned to England with me. I would be lost without him."

The stone-faced man softened slightly. "Your Ladyship is too kind."

"How else can we help you, Mycroft?" she asked.

"You have been of great service, Lady Eva. We will be going over to the museum to verify the security of the paintings. We want your exhibit to go off smoothly."

As they left the suite, John turned to Mycroft expectantly.

"Well?"

Raising his eyebrows, Mycroft looked at him blankly. "Yes?"

"Don't you want to discuss your theories or let me hear your deductions?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Not really."

John frowned. "Here is what I noticed. Lady Eva sometimes used the royal 'we' and sometimes said 'I.' That could mean she is suffering from a slight dementia. And why did she hire a man from Croatia to run all of her affairs?"

"I can see why Sherlock likes to have you on cases." Mycroft gave him a thin-lipped smile. "Lady Eva doesn't have dementia. She is a sharp, mean old woman who despises people. She obviously has come to depend on Stevan to the point of referring to him as part of 'we.' And he isn't a Croat. He's a Serb."

Noticing John's startled expression, Mycroft added, "My specialty is accents. Excuse me, I have to take this call."

"Anything?" John asked anxiously when Mycroft pocketed his mobile.

"Yes. My person has informed me that Sherlock has arrived at the museum. Let's join him, shall we?"


	5. Chapter 5

As sunlight began to peek around the edges of the curtains in 221B Baker Street, Sherlock thrust his shaking hands into his coat pockets and paced. He had spent the night cross-referencing criminals who could be capable of both pulling off a daytime kidnapping and an art theft. But his research had yielded no suspects.

He had nothing.

No leads, no clues.

No Molly.

Her name was the drumbeat in the back of his mind. No matter how much he tried to focus his mind on the task at hand, all he saw was her face. Not knowing where she was, what was happening to her, drove him to the edge of panic. Never before had he experienced such abject fear alternating with sheer rage.

He had started doing background searches, beginning with the director of the Hensley Art Gallery, Gary Patrick. The man's history had several gaps, large periods of time unaccounted for. Sherlock seized this thin thread of a possibility and hailed a cab. He hadn't eaten or slept in days, but as he traveled to the gallery, he realized his suit was wrinkled and his dark curls were unwashed. Bounding up the back stairs of the museum, he was surprised how little he cared.

"And where do you think you're going?"

As Sherlock exited the dimly lit stairwell at the third floor, a knuckly security guard with a shaggy beard and rheumy eyes shuffled toward him. Quickly switching gears, Sherlock threw up his hands helplessly.

"The elevator was slow."

A wide grin cracked the guard's friendly face. "That it is. But museum patrons aren't allowed on this level. I'm going to have to ask you to go back down, sir."

"Mr. Ilic." Sherlock leaned forward to see the man's security badge more clearly. "Mr. Patrick told me that if I was ever in town, I had to look him up. I'm only in London for today. I'd be ever so grateful if you would make an exception this one time and point me to his office. I'll just leave a note to say I was here."

Sherlock widened his blue-green eyes to achieve what John called his "kicked puppy" expression.

The guard considered the detective carefully. "Where do you know Mr. Patrick from?"

Unphased, Sherlock lied. "The Old Hare. A pub in Manchester."

Nodding, Ilic gestured for him to follow. "That sounds like Mr. Patrick. He likes his ale."

"You know him well?" Sherlock asked lightly.

"Let's say I know more about the director than most people," Ilic sniggered.

Sherlock gave the man a friendly pat on the back. "Tell me more."

~s~s~s~s~

Considering how taxing their last shift had been, Dr. Schaeffer and his team welcomed the ordinary start to their next workday. After rounds, Geoff left to meet with the chief of staff, while Michelle and Freddie spent the next hour catching up on paperwork. Adile, however, went back to Jane's room.

The swelling on her patient's face had gone down enough so that Adile could make out the woman's features. Her coloring reminded Adile of a young girl at the refugee camp where she and Geoff had volunteered. That girl, also beaten severely, had died. Adile noted gladly that Jane's vital signs were strong in spite of the fact she remained unconscious.

She gently examined Jane's upper left arm. Amid the finger-shaped bruises was a distinctive pence-sized red circle. It looked as if Jane's attacker had punched her intentionally to leave that specific mark. Patting the woman's hand, Adile strode down the hall to the elevator and went to Geoff's office. She searched local news sites for reports of a missing woman. She broadened her search to include nearby cities and did find one or two mentions of missing women, but their descriptions didn't match Jane's.

Thinking about the red mark on her patient's arm, she slowly typed in the name she wanted to forget: the Monster of Zelengora. Up popped countless articles one of the most heinous war criminal of the Bosnian conflict. She already knew the facts; after working in the camp, she made a point of following every news story about him. The man supposedly had been a factory worker whose sociopathic nature found an outlet when the war began. He was never captured or even positively identified. Only one photo of him existed, but no one could say for sure which blurred face in the graduating class picture was his.

The female refugees, shattered and empty, all shared a similar horror story. At his hands they had been repeatedly beaten and raped. And each one had a distinctive round mark branded on her upper left arm, a permanent reminder of his abuse. The difference between them and Jane was Jane hadn't been raped and the mark on her arm hadn't been burned into her flesh.

"I leave for five minutes and you take over my office." Geoff interrupted her thoughts as he entered with a teasing smile that disappeared when he saw Adile's pensive expression. "What's wrong?"

"How did your meeting with Gideon go?" Her attempt to sound sunny fell flat.

"What's wrong?"

Adile closed the laptop. "The mark on Jane's arm. I double-checked it. He did it. The Monster."

Geoff tossed his clipboard on his desk. As much as he wanted to deny the possibility that this man was in England, the surgeon trusted Adile's judgment.

"Yeah, OK." He carefully took off his glasses and slipped them into his pocket. "We need to call the police. No, the Home Office. Someone there will know what to do next."

~s~s~s~s~

It happened so quickly. John wasn't sure what occurred first—Mycroft opening the door to the museum director's office or Sherlock slamming the man against the opposite wall. Instinctively, John rushed across the plush office to pry his friend's fingers from the director's throat.

"Let him go!" he shouted, pulling Sherlock with one strong movement. John released his grasp on Sherlock's arm as the detective jerked away.

"What is this all this about?" Mycroft sounded more than annoyed.

Gary Patrick, a heavy-set man whose oily appearance was heightened by a ruddy complexion, simmered quietly. "This ill-mannered idiot came here without an appointment, demanding access to the Blackwell paintings, babbling something about a kidnapping. The next thing I know, he attacked me."

Sherlock shot him a withering look. "You said something regrettable. Something ill-mannered. Didn't you, Patrick?"

The man shifted uncomfortably. "I may have misspoken. But you had no right to—"

"He said Molly was stupid."

"What?" John asked incredulously.

"I did not." Indignant, Patrick straightened his jacket. "I said whoever this Molly Hooper is, she was stupid for being involved with a maniac like Sherlock Holmes."

John quickly blocked Sherlock before the detective could lunge at the museum director again.

"Mr. Patrick, I do apologize for my brother's outburst. I am Mycroft Holmes, and we are here to ensure the security of the Blackwell paintings. I'm sure you were notified of this security analysis."

Pacified, the museum director resumed his seat behind his glass-and-chrome desk. "I did receive something from the insurance company. Let me look."

"You have to get some rest," John whispered, surveying his friend's unkempt appearance. Sherlock's five o'clock shadow was uneven and his rumpled suit hung limply on his lanky frame.

"Where have you been?" Sherlock demanded.

"I tried to tell you last night. Mycroft came back early to help find Molly. We thought—"

"_We_?"

John took a deep breath, then a second one. "We thought if we could work on this case together, we could turn up some leads more quickly."

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant. My brother and my blogger working on my bloody case!" Sherlock left the office with John on his heels.

"You aren't yourself right now. You haven't slept, haven't eaten. You're running on pure adrenaline."

Sherlock scowled. "I can go without food or sleep. You know that."

"How many nicotine patches are you wearing?"

"None."

John shook his head. "This isn't just another case. This is Molly we're talking about."

Sherlock whirled around, his face contorted darkly. "Do you think I don't realize that?"

He had never seen Sherlock so close to losing control. "Of course you do," John said evenly. "Tell me what you did last night. You were up all night, I presume?"

Hearing John's reasoned voice calmed him. "I reviewed my cases to see if there was anyone who could outwit a state-of-the-art security system and plan a kidnapping. There was no one. I began background checks on the staff. Patrick has a sketchy past, so I decided to confront him immediately."

"Sherlock, she's going to be fine. We will find her." John placed his hand on the detective's arm and was met with a look of despair.

"John, I don't know what I'll do if—"

"I just received a call," interrupted Mycroft as he strode up to them. "You need to go to Detective Inspector Lestrade's office."

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Why?"

"My people have broken the code. By the time you get there, Lestrade should have deduced which of the envelopes corresponds to the man that hired Milverton to watch you and Dr. Hooper. I will stay here and ensure the paintings are safe."

Staring at his brother blankly, Sherlock asked, "Why are you helping me?"

Mycroft gave him a bemused smile. "I have my reasons."

~s~s~s~s~

"Zelengora."

"What or who is that?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade handed him a manila envelope marked with a Z. "I had to look it up myself. It's a mountain region in Bosnia. During the war there was a large rape camp there."

"Rape camp?" John echoed, horrified.

"Rape as a weapon of war, doctor. What a sick world we live in, yeah? The right bastard who ran it earned himself the nickname the Monster of Zelengora. And that is what Milverton wrote down and put in this envelope," Lestrade said. "According to the code key, the dates and initials on the flap make this the only envelope Milverton had that matches up with those surveillance photos."

Sherlock dropped the envelope and paper on the floor. "Tell me the rest of it. What else you learned about this criminal."

"According to what I've been able to find online, he was never caught. Supposedly his name was Dom Vijec, but no one knows for sure. He disappeared completely after the war."

"So a war criminal hired Milverton to watch Sherlock and Molly . . . and then kidnapped Molly?" John wondered, slumping into a chair.

"The man obviously changed his identity and is here in London. He feared the background checks I would run as part of the security analysis would reveal his true identity. He took Molly to keep me from doing that," Sherlock said tonelessly and walked to the doorway.

John and Lestrade watched Sherlock anxiously. They didn't have to see his face to know what the detective was thinking, because it was what they were thinking, too. A brutal rapist was holding Molly hostage.

"Lady Blackwell's estate manager is from Serbia," John realized. "Mycroft recognized the accent. Could he have something to do with it?"

"Give me his name," Lestrade ordered and John complied.

"The museum security guard I met is also Serbian," said Sherlock, turning to face them. "I heard the inflections when he spoke. Mycroft thinks accents are his specialty. The truth is I'm much better at identifying them than he is."

"So that is two possibilities," John said. "Now we are getting somewhere."

"Three actually," Sherlock said. "There also is Gary Patrick."

"Who is that?" Lestrade asked.

"Gary Patrick, the gallery director. He had his name legally changed ten years ago. He was born Goran Petrovic."

"How on earth did you deduce that? By the way he took a punch?" John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. Ilic the security guard told me."

Lestrade tapped his pen rapidly. "What I wouldn't give to be able to bring all three of them in and make this Monster reveal himself. But hunches won't do it. I need proof."

Sherlock began to pace. "Let's think logically about this. Petrovic would have known about the security analysis, but he is in the public eye as a gallery director. Not a good place to be if you want to be in hiding.

"Ilic the security guard presumably had to pass several background checks to be in his position. He wouldn't necessarily have heard about the security analysis in advance.

"Lady Blackwell's estate manager, Tojagic. What can you tell me about him, John?"

"He manages her properties in Cornwall. He is from Serbia. They met in Croatia."

"And if memory serves, Lady Blackwell is a recluse?"

John nodded. "She said they don't have the Internet, mobiles, or computers. Only a landline in Tojagic's office. They are in town for the exhibit."

Sherlock nodded, every fiber of his being ready to run out the door. "Let's go see him."

~s~s~s~s~

The man felt good about how his meeting with Holmes had gone. Despite his obvious intelligence, he had no idea whom he was dealing with.

Taking a sip of coffee, he waved the waitress away when she came to take his order. No, he would sit here quietly and enjoy his success.

~s~s~s~s~

Dr. Schaeffer hung up with a sigh. "I don't know how much they believed me, but they took down the information."

Adile furrowed her brow. "What else can we do?"

Geoff pulled her into a loving embrace. "I know how upsetting this is for you. I promise we will keep doing whatever we can to catch this man."

"Dr. Schaeffer! Oh . . . I am sorry!" Michelle Dreiser stood in the doorway, red with embarrassment.

Adile smiled softly as she separated from Geoff. "What is it, Dr. Dreiser?"

"Jane is waking up."

The trio rushed to their patient's bedside. Dr. Schaeffer examined Jane, who softly moaned under fluttering eyelashes.

"Can you hear me? If you can, squeeze my hand," he instructed her. He felt a slight pressure on his hand.

"You are going to be fine, dear," Adile said, stroking her cheek.

Jane's eyes opened slightly then drifted closed again.

"She was trying to speak earlier. I think she was saying her name," said Michelle.

"What was it?"

"I couldn't be sure, but it sounded like Sheryl."


	6. Chapter 6

"I will be greatly relieved when this exhibit is over and we return to Cornwall."

"I agree, my Lady. I hope the visit by Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes didn't upset you."

"I'm fine, though you know how much I hate to deal with people. But I suppose we can never escape unpleasantness, in London or even in our little town."

"My Lady?"

"Anna left a message for you with the front desk and the clerk stupidly had it sent up to my attention. Anna meant well by calling, but I shouldn't be bothered with these details."

"Yes, Lady Eva. I'll speak to her. What was Anna's message?"

"Apparently a woman was found on the road leading from Jackson Cottage beaten senseless. Anna heard about it from gossipy neighbors at the market and felt that you as property manager needed to know right away. Stevan, are you all right? You look pale."

"I'm just surprised. That is upsetting news, Lady Eva. I feel I need to go back to the estate early and make sure Jackson Cottage wasn't somehow involved."

"Why would it have been involved?"

"It's been empty this month. Someone might have broken in."

"Do you really think it's necessary for you to personally check it? We could ask the police to drive by."

"My Lady, I won't be able to rest until I make sure everything is under control."

~s~s~s~s~

There were no calls to Mummy this time to arrange tea and an interview. Sherlock stormed into Lady Eva's suite like an avenging angel with John by his side.

"Where is he?" the detective demanded of the old woman sitting pristinely on the delicate sofa.

"Sherlock Holmes. You are as unpleasant as I remember," Lady Eva said angrily. "What right do you have to come into my rooms like this?"

"Where is your property manager?" he asked.

Squaring her shoulders, Lady Eva looked at the pair disdainfully. "That is none of your business. Now get out or I will be forced to call security."

Pulling at his friend's arm, John pointed to a black laptop on the end table.

"Is this his laptop?" Sherlock asked as he quickly opened it.

Lady Eva shrugged. "I suppose so. I have no use for such things. He only got it recently."

"Why does someone who lives cut off from society with no Internet need a laptop?" John whispered.

"Notice the initials that have been added below the space bar. CAM. Charles Augustus Milverton. We've got him, John." Sherlock quickly closed the computer and slid it under his arm.

"Lady Eva, I'm sorry we've burst in like this, but we have to know where Stevan is. A woman's life may be on the line." John's kind voice held a firm note.

The elderly woman clearly wasn't accustomed to being addressed in this way. "Dr. Watson, Stevan has nothing to do with anything unsavory."

"Is that so? I find rape very unsavory!" Sherlock shouted.

"Sherlock, wait," John cautioned him, noting Lady Eva's paleness and uneven respirations.

"Get out of my suite!" she said.

"Not only that, but he also kidnapped my pathologist. Tell me now where he is," Sherlock persisted.

"He wouldn't . . . he couldn't . . ." Lady Eva panted.

"Where is he?" Sherlock shouted.

"Cornwall!" she replied, clutching at her chest.

John was at her side in a moment. After taking the woman's pulse, he quickly called the front desk. "Lady Eva Blackwell needs medical attention in her suite. Now."

The doctor turned his attention to his patient. "Lady Eva, everything is going to be all right. I need you to calm down."

"Make . . . him . . . leave," she whispered.

"Sherlock, it might be best if you—" John scanned the room for his best friend but only saw the door standing open.

~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock hailed a cab outside the hotel.

"Take me to the airport," he barked as he sent his brother a text.

As they pulled out into traffic, he dialed Lestrade. "I need you to send everything you've learned about the Monster to my mobile."

~s~s~s~s~

_How could she still be alive?_

The thought repeated every few moments as he stared at the ominously dark clouds zooming by the window. He feverishly began to work on a plan. He would wait until the dead of night to slip into the hospital. Surely they would have a light staff at that time. He would find out what room she was in and finish what he had started.

~s~s~s~s~

Wrapped in a dark blue leather coat trimmed in fur, Anthea attracted appreciative stares from both men and women as she entered the gallery, but she focused only on finding her boss.

Flashing her ID to the agent guarding the main exhibit hall's entrance, she briskly walked through a display of the most amazing Impressionist paintings she had ever seen as well as a few she had never seen. Mycroft Holmes stood in the far corner surveying a Monet, his impassive face showing signs of worry.

"Is everything arranged for Sherlock and the airplane?" he asked as she approached.

"They've taking off right now. How has it been here?"

"The artwork is safe. Whatever this kidnapper is after, he won't get these paintings." Mycroft squinted at the intricate brush strokes. "I need you to get me everything we have on a Serbian war criminal called the Monster of Zelengora."

Anthea furrowed her brow. "I know that name. Zelengora. I read it recently."

"Oh?" Mycroft looked up sharply.

"It was a memo circulated about a phone tip. Someone had called the Home Office about the Monster of Zelengora, I'm sure of it." She quickly accessed the files. "Here it is."

Mycroft took her mobile and scanned the information quickly. "God bless your photographic memory, Anthea. We need to track down this Dr. Schaeffer immediately."

~s~s~s~s~

The aircraft was smaller than others he had seen Mycroft use, but as long as it got him to his destination, Sherlock didn't care if it was Wright brothers' plane.

"Welcome on board, sir," said a woman who ushered him in. "Be sure to fasten your seatbelt. We're heading into a storm."

Ignoring her, Sherlock began reading the information Lestrade had sent him and began memorizing everything ever written about the Monster.

~s~s~s~s~

Mycroft had arranged for a driver and car to be waiting when the plane landed. Sherlock was both grateful and annoyed by his brother's thoughtfulness.

"The Blackwell Estate main house," Sherlock said, turning his collar to the biting wind.

The car sped through sheets of rain fifteen minutes out of town. The imposing stone and iron gates gaped open and the manor house in the distance was dark.

Leaping from the car, Sherlock bypassed the front door and circled to the back terrace. He jiggled the handles of the French doors and was surprised when one opened. Standing in what surely was Lady Eva's library, Sherlock silently observed the airy décor that was illuminated by a flickering fire in the hearth.

"What are you doing here?"

A bearded man stood in the main doorway opposite him holding a cup of coffee.

Sherlock stared at him coldly. "A more appropriate question would be, 'Who are you?' But you know that answer already, don't you, Dom?"

The man entered the room and circled the detective warily. "You've made a mistake."

"No, I haven't. You are Dom Vijec."

"My name is Stevan Tojagic."

Sherlock stood in front of the fire all the while keeping a firm grasp on the revolver in his pocket. "You somehow escaped justice in Bosnia and weaseled your way into Lady Eva's life. You handle everything for her, including her correspondence. You read the letter from the insurance company notifying her that I'd been hired to perform a security analysis for her art show. You knew that when I ran a background check on you, I'd discover Stevan Tojagic didn't exist. You hired Charlie Milverton to find out who was close to me then you kidnapped Dr. Molly Hooper to throw me off course."

"You're wrong. My name is Stevan. I've never heard of this Dom Vijec."

"You are the Monster of Zelengora, the man who made rape a weapon of war in the modern era."

"I am a quiet man leading a quiet life—"

"Do you think I don't recognize a sociopath when I see one?" Sherlock said.

Walking toward the French doors, Vijec stopped by a large curio cabinet. "I don't care what you say. You have no proof."

"Proof is for the courts. I don't need proof," Sherlock said above the rumbling thunder. "However, your ring is all the evidence needed." Both man stared at the large signet ring Vijec wore. "From what I read, you fancy branding women with that ring. Too bad you never considered anyone would observe it."

Grabbing a large cut-crystal vase from the cabinet, Vijec hurled it at Sherlock. The detective ducked as it sailed over his head and shattered against the wall. Vijec threw open the French doors and ran down the lawn to the bordering forest with Sherlock only a moment behind.

Dark woods can play tricks on the mind, even on one as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes'. The rain-soaked ground oozed beneath his feet as he ran, his lungs burning with each hard-hitting breath. Exposed roots and dark rock outcroppings became threatening hazards. He weaved between silver-brown trees with branches that bent to the ground like tired soldiers guarding the carpet of leaves torn away by the storm. In the coming nightfall, the woods had an unearthly quality to it. The creeping shadows made the countryside look dim, as if it could disappear in a blink.

Sherlock rushed down a muddy slope that was deceptive in its gentle appearance. He lost his footing and tumbled to the bottom. He sprang up a moment later, but Dom had disappeared. Rushing to where the trees ended at a tall fence, Sherlock came to an abrupt stop and listened intently. Dripping branches creaked and blew a fine mist into his face, but over the whispering wind, he heard a distinct grunt. Catching a quick movement out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock turned to see Dom scrambling up an incline littered with rocks.

"Stop!" Sherlock shouted as he aimed his gun.

Dom took a step back. "If you shoot me, you'll never know where she is."

Hesitating for a split second, Sherlock eyed the distance between them. "Tell me where she is."

"Put your gun down first."

The detective shook his head as water dripped from his dark curls. "You will face the justice you so richly deserve for all of your crimes."

Dom suddenly sounded like a spoilt child. "Th-that happened a long time ago. The war made me . . . It wasn't my fault."

"And what is your excuse for kidnapping Molly Hooper? Who do you blame for that? Tell me where she is!" Sherlock's eyes never left Dom's.

The man's bravado wavered. "I was going to let her go. It got out of control, that's all."

Rivulets of water streamed down Sherlock's face. "You mistake me for a patient man."

"If she hadn't fought back, I never would have . . ."

Sherlock thrust his gun in Dom's face. "You never would have what?"

"She's fine, OK?" Don lied. "I'll text you her location after you give me an hour's head start."

Sherlock knew this verbal sparring could go on indefinitely, and it was time Molly didn't have. With a snarl, he pushed Dom back, aimed, and fired.

The well-placed shot slightly grazed Dom's shoulder, causing the man to howl in pain. Whatever self-restraint he had developed over his years in hiding finally snapped and the Monster emerged. "She was just like all those other whores. Couldn't do what she was told. Fought back. She made me do it."

"What did you do to her?" Sherlock pointed the gun again, this time at the man's head.

"I beat her," he said viciously. "You're too late. She's dead."

Wracked by a guttural cry, Sherlock shouldered Dom to the ground, pummeling him with punches to the face and torso. As the rain fell, the sounds of flesh meeting flesh mixed with primal grunts.

Exhausted and drained, Sherlock stood and wiped a trickle of blood from a cut on his cheek. If Molly was dead, there was no point in anything, no point at all. He picked up the gun and scrutinized Dom who coughed and rolled to one side, his face already starting to swell.

Sherlock stared at him with a burning rage. "I will kill you. But first you're going to take me to her."

"She got what she deserved." Dom pushed himself to his feet. "They all did."

What happened next occurred so quickly that when Sherlock later related it to John, he uncharacteristically was unsure of the exact sequence. But he did know that his mobile ringing set off the chain of events. Sherlock was distracted only for a split second, but that's all the time Dom needed to lunge for the gun. Sherlock fired, but Dom had grasped his wrist and the bullet flew harmlessly into the sky. The two men struggled for an agonizing minute. Then, with a blow to Sherlock's midsection, Dom had him off balance and wrestled away the gun.

His bloodied face distorted with anger, the Monster triumphantly took aim.

Sherlock instinctively braced himself for the sickening impact of bullet ripping skin, crushing bone, but his only conscious thought was of Molly and how much he loved her. As the shot rang out, he felt his chest for sticky, hot blood, but there was none. Instead, Dom fell lifelessly at his feet, a neatly centered bullet wound on his chest.

Filled with anguish and confusion, Sherlock whirled around to see a nondescript woman in a black rain slicker emerge from the trees. He had seen her once before. She was the woman on Mycroft's plane.

"Who are you?" he shouted above the rising wind.

"I work for your brother. His orders since Dr. Hooper went missing were to trail you and keep you safe." She glanced at the body on the ground and quickly sent a text.

The Monster was dead and Molly was lost to him. Staggering slightly, Sherlock was flooded with the desperation that drove people to believe in a higher power. He would gladly plead with God, Allah, or little green men to know where Molly was, dead or alive.

The words tore from his throat. "Leave me."

The agent toed the gun away from the despondent detective as her mobile sprang to life with an incoming text. Her monotone voice rose in excitement. "It's your brother's assistant. They've found her, Mr. Holmes! Molly Hooper is alive."

~s~s~s~s~

When the elevator deposited him on the second floor of Unified Hospital, Sherlock rushed to the nurses' station.

"Where is she?"

The nurse on duty dropped her stack of charts on the counter. "Are you all right?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes and—"

She smiled kindly. "I spoke with your brother. You're here for our Jane."

~s~s~s~s~

If a sight could ever have moved Sherlock Holmes to tears, this was it. But not tears of sadness. In his heart bloomed a joy so pure that it almost erased every sorrow he had ever experienced.

Molly. Bruised and battered but alive, his Molly lay in the hospital bed in front of him. It was as if a lost dream was suddenly reborn in all its glory and hope. Rushing to her side, Sherlock gathered her hands in his.

"Sherlock?" she mumbled.

"I'm here." He drank in the sight of her. "You're going to be all right. John will be here soon and Mycroft. We'll get you the best of care, whatever you need."

"Your hands . . . cold. You OK?"

A laugh that sounded more like a sob escaped him and he leaned over to kiss her.

Sherlock gratefully accepted a change of clean scrubs and a warm towel from the nurse who had greeted him and quickly got out of his wet clothing. With every possible tenderness, he laid next to Molly, maneuvering around IV tubing and monitor leads. He carefully nestled her against his chest and listened to her quiet breathing.

He knew what it was like to live without her—and it was an existence he wanted no part of. She was so fragile lying next to him. Sherlock quickly took stock of her injuries and struggled against the growing lump in his throat. A single tear overflowed from the corner of his eye.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" His voice shook.

"Don't go."

"No," he said brokenly. "Close your eyes. I'll be here when you awake."


	7. Chapter 7

It wasn't at all like it was in the movies.

When Molly Hooper began to regain consciousness, she didn't simply open her eyes and know where she was and what had happened. Her senses slowly awoke one at a time, beginning with her sense of smell. From the distinct antiseptic scents she detected, Molly knew she was in a hospital, which made perfect sense. It was St. Bart's, of course.

Next came hearing. She heard a woman's warm, soothing tones, which reminded Molly of her mum. But she couldn't make out the words. Occasionally a man's deep voice interrupted her dreams, but it wasn't Sherlock's. She consistently heard the beeps of machines and the high-pitched alarm that sounded when an IV was empty. She also recognized the faint humming of a sequential compression device inflating pneumatic stockings to help lower limb circulation and prevent blood clots. But why would she be wearing pneumatic stockings? It didn't make sense. Why would she be in a hospital bed? Had she fallen at work and hit her head? Had she suddenly taken ill?

Sherlock would know. If she were sick, he certainly would be nearby. So she focused her energy on turning her thoughts into words and called his name, but she could never quite say it. Only unfamiliar voices came to comfort her. Confused and annoyed, Molly tried to force her leaden eyes open only to have her traitorous lids fall shut and the sleepiness she had been fighting overtake her again.

It wasn't until she heard Sherlock's voice and felt his hands on hers that she almost fully woke up. He sounded funny, almost emotional. She would ask him about it later. For now, she knew she was safe and that everything would be OK.

~s~s~s~s~

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock awoke with a start but didn't give any outward signs of it. Having spent many nights conducting surveillance in dangerous settings, he had trained himself to open his eyes to full wakefulness and take in his surroundings quickly. He noted he still had on the pale blue scrubs the nurse had given him the night before, and that the very same nurse stood next to him as he slumped in a side chair next to Molly's bed.

"Mr. Holmes?" she repeated. "Can you step out into the hall for a moment?"

Stretching to his full height, Sherlock noted his side was sore from rolling down the hill and his jaw ached from Dom's punch, but these minor injuries were nothing compared to Molly's. His chest grew tight as he watched the easy rise and fall of Molly's chest as she slept without worry.

As if she could read his mind, the nurse patted his arm. "She's going to be all right."

She led him to the doorway and spoke in hushed tones. "I'm Adile Behar, Dr. Geoffrey Schaeffer's head nurse. He is the surgeon who operated on Molly. I'm not the ICU nurse, but I've been following Molly's case closely."

"And you spoke to my brother."

"He called after Dr. Schaeffer contacted the Home Office about the Monster."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "That mark on her left arm. The Monster's mark. You had seen it before?"

"Yes," Adile said. "Except in Zelengora he branded the women. In Molly's case he punched her arm. For some reason, something in his unstable mind told him that he had to mark every woman he beat. Molly's mark will fade.

"The reason I asked you out here is to tell you that I spoke to your brother again while you were asleep. He is on his way here with a Dr. Watson. I told him you needed fresh clothes. He sounds like a nice man."

Sherlock was about to argue that statement when he heard Molly stirring in her bed.

"Sherlock?" she whispered hoarsely.

He flew to her side. "What do you need?"

It was their question, the one she had asked before helping him fake his death, the one he asked after she had been in a car accident. It reminded them of where they had started and who they were now.

"You," she would always answer and this time was no different. He kissed the back of her hand.

Noticing the night duty nurse step in with fresh IV bags, Sherlock lightly brushed a strand of hair off her swollen face. "The nurse is here to attend to you, so I'm going to step out for a moment. I'll be right back."

"OK."

He waited until Molly dozed off again before walking to the hall. Feeling the weight of the past few days settling on his shoulders, Sherlock leaned against the wall outside her door and slowly slid to the floor.

~s~s~s~s~

The next day over coffee in the doctor's lounge, John listened to Geoff describe Molly's surgery in detail, then to Adile who shared how touch-and-go it had been. He in turn explained the complicated web that had connected Dom, Milverton, Lady Eva, Sherlock, and Molly.

"You said you just came from Lady Eva. How is she?" Adile asked.

John grew somber. "She's recovering from her heart attack very slowly. Her nephew is with her now and plans to run her estate."

"I've always said having loved ones near helps the patient recover more quickly. Since Sherlock has been here, Molly is doing much better," said Dr. Schaeffer.

"Sherlock is a very interesting man," Adile commented.

"Yes, that's one word for him," John said with a chuckle. "I know he appreciates what you've both done for Molly. If you hadn't called the Home Office, we wouldn't have known where she was."

Geoff leaned over and kissed Adile on the cheek. "This lady is the reason why I called. She wouldn't give up."

Unaccustomed to public displays of affection, Adile turned a shade of red that reminded John of Molly. He set his empty cup on the table and stood. "I'm sure Sherlock'll be round to thank you, too. That is if he ever leaves Molly's side."

"They should be moving Molly into a regular room now, so I'll chase him out to get some fresh air," Adile said.

After John had left, Geoff stared into Adile's warm brown eyes. "I can hardly believe the Monster was here in Cornwall for years and that he is finally dead. I only hope this gives peace to all those girls we treated."

Adile gave his hand a loving squeeze. "And now it's almost time for our Molly to go home."

~s~s~s~s~

Mycroft stood at the hospital's main entrance watching Sherlock take one last drag on a cigarette before crushing it under foot.

"Have you taken it up again?" said Mycroft with a predictably sardonic smile.

Sherlock snorted derisively. "Don't you think after what I've been through this week, I deserve at least one cigarette?"

"Dr. Hooper might not agree. I hear she is quite adamant about your giving up the habit."

Sherlock couldn't argue that point so he ignored it. "When are you returning to London?"

"Today. Anthea should be here momentarily." The brothers stood stiffly next to one another. "Are your hotel accommodations satisfactory?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I hadn't noticed. The hospital has let me stay with Molly past visiting hours."

"How is Dr. Hooper this morning?"

"Good. She's being moved out of ICU right now."

"And you?"

"I'm obviously not being moved out of ICU."

"If that was an attempt at humor, I suggest you go back to the drawing board." Mycroft's tone was cool.

Sherlock squinted into the bright sunshine. "That agent, the woman you assigned to tail me? She is one of your better ones."

"Coming from you that is high praise."

"She proved helpful," Sherlock said.

"Considering she saved your life, I would hope you'd think so."

"All of your connections and arrangements during this time have been . . . helpful."

Knowing this was as close to a "thank you" as he would ever get, Mycroft said, "I know Dr. Hooper is important to you. I would hate to think what you would become without her. Perhaps you can properly introduce us now that she is your girlfriend."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I would like things between you and me to go back to normal. Leave me alone."

"You really are a bloody prat."

Sherlock was surprised to see John standing behind them, a deep frown etched on his usually friendly face.

"I'm used to his rudeness, doctor," Mycroft said dryly. "Although why he never told me about his relationship with Dr. Hooper is beyond me."

"I don't tell you about any of my relationships," Sherlock snapped.

"That's because you only have three!" John said. "Sherlock, without Mycroft's help we wouldn't have found Molly. He's even arranged for her medical transport back to London. You owe him some courtesy."

"Oh that's right, you two have become quite the buddies now, haven't you?" Sherlock sneered.

"Stop being such a child!" John shouted as Sherlock stalked toward a grassy area next to the car park.

Mycroft sighed. "Look after him for me, doctor. I don't want him to do something he will regret."

John felt frozen in place. "What do you mean?"

"Sherlock has had overwhelming emotions flooding him this week. He may decide to flee them altogether—and their cause." Spying Anthea arrive with his car, Mycroft walked to the curb. "Good day, John."

~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock stopped near a large elm tree and stared up into its irregular branches that splayed across the sky like fingers spread wide. Hearing his best friend approach, he took a deep breath.

"If you are coming to yell at me more, don't bother. I have more important things on my mind than your behavior lessons."

John walked past him and stood on the other side of the trunk. "I'm not coming to yell at you, although you deserve it. Right now I'm more concerned about something Mycroft just told me."

"And what did my dear brother say?"

"That everything that has happened this week may make you decide to leave Molly. Tell me that isn't true, or so help me Sherlock, I will punch you in the nose."

~s~s~s~s~

Adile studied her patient carefully. Molly's bruises were fading, her incision was healing nicely, and her broken bones were mending. But what troubled the nurse was the look of sadness in Molly's eyes.

"Can I get you anything?" Adile asked.

"No, thank you." Molly turned her face to the warm sunlight streaming in through a small window.

Adile sat on the edge of the bed. "Is there something you'd like to talk about?"

Molly bit her lip. "I can't remember what happened to me. None of it. It's all blank."

"What's the last thing you do remember?"

Molly stared intently at her hands. "Getting dressed that morning. Wondering how Sherlock was getting on with his case. Starting a letter to my friend Sarah. The next thing I know, I'm here, I'm hurt, and I have a large gap of time I can't account for. This man—this Monster—is dead, so I'll never be able to fill in the details."

"Perhaps that's for the best," Adile suggested. "Hasn't Sherlock told you what happened? Your friend, Dr. Watson, filled me and Dr. Schaeffer in earlier."

"Sherlock told me what he knows and the parts he surmised, but I have a feeling he's holding something back," she said softly. "I think he feels guilty."

"What about?"

"Because his line of work landed me here. Not that I blame him for what happened," she added quickly. "Not for a minute. But sometimes I wonder . . ."

"Yes?"

Molly's eyes shone brightly. "I wonder when he'll realize that I'm a complication. That his work and his life would be simpler if he didn't have to worry about me."

Adile paused for a moment. "I wouldn't presume to give you advice, but I hope you'll let me share a little from my own experience. When I finished nursing school, I volunteered to work at a refugee center. I'd never left Istanbul or my family before. I was naïve and didn't know a lot about the world.

"The first night I met Dr. Schaeffer. He was charismatic, larger than life, and very good-looking. It didn't matter that he was older or of a different nationality. I fell in love at first sight. Silly, right?"

Molly blushed. "Not that silly."

"Over time he grew to love me, too. I traveled with him around the world, mainly to war zones where we served the most helpless of victims. Most of the time I was a help to him, but there were times when I was a hindrance. On one particular occasion we almost lost a patient because he was worried I was under fire at a field hospital in Afghanistan. I believed his work was too important to be interrupted by me, so I decided to end things with him."

"What happened?"

"He let me know in no uncertain terms that his work was important, but so was I and that he didn't want me to ever leave him."

Molly sank lower into her pillow. "The thing is, Sherlock isn't like Dr. Schaeffer. He isn't like most men. He's pretty divorced from his feelings."

"That actually sounds like most men I know," Adile said with a smile. "I saw him when he came looking for you. He was a sight—soaking wet, muddy, exhausted. But what I remember the most was his sheer joy and relief. And how much he so obviously loved you. If you are having doubts, don't doubt that."


	8. Chapter 8

**Thanks to all of you who have stuck with this story to the end, even when I wanted to chuck it. **

**This story was inspired by "Dietro casa" by Ludovico Einaudi. When I pictured in my mind's eye the scene where Sherlock finally finds Molly, it seemed to fit well.**

~s~s~s~s~

John Watson thought he was one of the few people who could truly read his best friend's facial cues, but as he looked into Sherlock's glacial blue eyes the doctor had to confess the other man's expression was inscrutable. Was that hurt that flitted behind his gaze? Anger?

Sherlock took a deep breath. "What do you mean Mycroft thinks I would leave Molly because of what happened this week?"

"He said you would want to avoid what caused all the emotions you've gone through," John said. "In other words, Molly."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Do you think I would do that?"

John hesitated. "I think it's more likely you'd leave Molly because of some mistaken idea that you're protecting her."

"I'm disappointed." Sherlock strode back toward the hospital. "I thought you'd have picked up on my methods by now. If you had observed me this week, you'd know that I've displayed all the signs of a man who cares very much for her."

John walked quickly to keep pace. "I know you love her, Sherlock."

"And yet you think I would abandon her."

John chose his words carefully, not wanting to hurt his friend but still wanting to be truthful. "I think you would put yourself and your agenda first."

Sherlock came to an abrupt stop. "In that case, you are correct. I'm an inherently selfish person. I freely admit that. And this week I learned that I don't want to live without Molly Hooper. I am staying true to form and putting my wants and needs first. I want and need Molly. Therefore, I will not leave her. Not now, not ever."

~s~s~s~s~

With heartfelt gratitude and promises to visit, Molly said goodbye to Dr. Schaeffer and Adile. When she saw the plane Mycroft had arranged to take her to London, she fretted about who was paying for it, but Sherlock neither knew nor cared and as they boarded, told Molly not to worry. His brother was, after all, the government. He could afford it.

Unbeknownst to Sherlock, Mycroft also had called Dr. Moira Rickman, a top trauma specialist. After Molly was admitted to St. Bart's, Dr. Rickman examined her and performed a battery of tests. However, the doctor didn't recommend changing the excellent treatment plan that the doctors at Unified Hospital had begun.

One step closer to actually going home, Molly recovered quicker than anyone expected. She especially brightened when her friends from work began visiting. Sherlock carefully scrutinized the well-wishers from other St Bart's departments who paraded through Molly's room. She was a quiet woman, but she had friends practically on every floor.

Sherlock focused his keen skills of observation on Molly's physical needs. If she shifted too much in her bed, he got her an extra pillow. If she licked her lips often, he was on hand to give her water. If she was in pain, he tracked down a nurse and demanded she get medication. While Molly appreciated this new, thoughtful Sherlock, she preferred one that hovered a little less. She suggested more than once that he take a case and go back to work, but he insisted on staying with her as much as he could.

A few days before she was to be discharged, Molly and Sherlock took a turn around the solarium. Because she was still unsteady on her feet, she held on to his arm, but a few feet from her wheelchair, she surprised him by letting go.

"Molly—"

With a determined shake of her head, Molly slowly walked by herself. "I need to get used to doing this. There!" she exclaimed proudly, slowly lowering into the seat. "Dr. Rickman says I can go home soon."

"About that," Sherlock began. "You should plan on convalescing at Baker Street."

"Why?"

Sherlock drew a chair up next to hers. "So I can keep an eye on you. John said you couldn't be there unless the rooms are decontaminated, but Mrs. Hudson said she would give everything a good cleaning."

Thinking of Mrs. Hudson, Molly took a plastic bag of chocolate-chip cookies out of her robe pocket. Sherlock's landlady had baked them the day before for her. After Sherlock declined taking one, Molly nibbled on one thoughtfully.

"I appreciate asking me to stay at yours, but I want to go home. I haven't been home in a long time," she said. "You don't need to worry about watching me."

Sherlock was about to list all the reasons why he thought this was a bad idea when the door opened.

"Here you are!" Greg Lestrade exclaimed.

"Greg! Not another bouquet!" Molly laughed as she accepted the bright blooms.

"Yes, _Greg_, three is a bit much." Sherlock curled his lip.

"There's nothing wrong with giving a lady flowers, you git," he replied. "Especially when she was nice enough to forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive you for."

"I found pictures of you in a murdered man's office, pictures that were obviously taken without your knowledge, and I didn't immediately follow up with you? I think you deserve more than an apology and a few daisies. I should've paid attention." Lestrade shifted uncomfortably.

Sherlock sneered. "Don't you have crimes to solve? You aren't as good at it as I am, but you are adequate."

"Sherlock," Molly chided him.

"I'm on my way in now." Greg tossed Sherlock a dirty look. "I wanted to see how Molly was doing today."

"I'm a little tired," she admitted.

"Your surprise visit isn't helping," Sherlock said pointedly.

"Right. Yeah, OK. I'll see you soon, Molly." Lestrade left without saying anything to Sherlock.

"You were rude to Greg," she said as Sherlock scrolled through his messages.

"Was I?" he murmured.

Reaching over, Molly took his chin in her hand and turned it until brown eyes met blue.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Unable to escape those lovely doe-shaped eyes that seemed to see right through him, Sherlock flashed a fake smile. "Shouldn't we be getting back to your room?"

"Not until you answer me."

Sherlock sulked. "I don't like Lestrade forcing his unwanted attentions on you."

Molly watched him closely. "I've seen you jealous and this isn't it."

Sherlock knew he couldn't bluster his way out. "Lestrade said he should have paid more attention to you. The truth is, I should have. I was in my mind palace the day you were kidnapped and didn't notice you were gone. There, now you have it."

"I already knew," she said lightly.

Sherlock drew back in surprise. "How?"

"Mr. Tate from security visited yesterday."

Sherlock wheeled Molly back to her room. "What type of Cretan would tell you something like that?" he seethed.

Molly glanced back at him. "He said you weren't sure which day's security footage to look at. It just slipped out."

Helping her into bed, Sherlock's mind raced to what he would do to Tate, but he was brought back to himself by Molly's gentle hand on his arm.

"The kidnapping didn't happen because you weren't paying attention. It wasn't your fault."

"I am the world's best detective. I should have been more observant where you are concerned."

"You pay more attention to others now than you ever have."

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling. "I'm not a good person to be in a relationship with."

"But you're a great kisser." She was pleased to see a half-smile tug at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"Am I?"

"Why don't you remind me?"

A while later, Molly ran her fingers through his dark curls. "I'm going to rest now. Promise me you'll go home and find a new case to work on."

"I'd rather stay here," he sighed.

"If you go back to Baker Street now, we can pick up where we left off later."

"You two should get a room. A hotel room, that is." John snickered on the other side of the slightly opened door.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I think visiting hours are almost over."

"Then it's a good thing we got here in time!" John pushed the door all the way open. "I have a surprise for you, all the way from Auckland!"

Molly squealed as her good friend and John's girlfriend Sarah rushed into her arms.

"I was so worried about you. The minute John rang to say Sherlock had found you, I knew I couldn't stay away a second longer."

"I can't believe you're here! But what about the fellowship?"

Sarah looked over at John. "We talked about it and agreed there will be other fellowships. Right now I'm supposed to be here. I love you all too much to stay away. Yes, even you, Sherlock."

The detective breezed by the couple on his way out. "Good to see you again, Mary. Molly, I will be back shortly."

Looking from one friend to the other, Molly said, "Why would he call you Mary? When he forgets your name, he usually calls you Samantha or Susan or another 's' name."

John threw his head back and laughed. "He's trying. The chap is finally trying. I told him Sarah's full name is Sarah Louise Mary Morstan. He tried to remember this time. At least he's getting closer!"

Sarah slipped her hand in John's. "Molly, we have a lot of catching up to do, but I can tell you're tired. I'll let you rest."

Unable to fight her sleepiness, Molly yawned. "I'll just take a quick nap."

She was sound asleep before they left the room.

As John and Sarah strolled down the hall, he teased, "I suppose I'll have to start calling you Mary now."

She gave him a kiss. "I wouldn't mind."

~s~s~s~s~

The End


End file.
